


Wet

by ImmoralHD



Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), F/M, Fantasizing, Imagined Fingerfucking, Masturbation, Relaxation, Shower Sex, Trolls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 00:44:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21437404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImmoralHD/pseuds/ImmoralHD
Summary: After a long day of skating practice, all she wants to do is relax.So relax she does, indulging herself in some sinful, salacious thoughts in the bath. Only thoughts of her lover could drag her to such pleasure, such intense emotion.
Relationships: OMC/OFC, Original Male Character/Original Female Character
Kudos: 3





	Wet

**Author's Note:**

> Glaire Talann, indigoblood, is a "glacial attackrobat" or, in our words, an ice skater! She murders in her spare time, and dates a fellow killer, Jackol Bachma (who is a yellowblooded OC of a friend of mine). He's a cold, calculating, silent type with a penchant for being ridiculously aloof and cruel. 
> 
> Amarra Ovaxel is also briefly mentioned, she's Glaire's manager and coach. She's also notoriously bitchy.
> 
> Any other questions, I'd love to answer! Hopefully you enjoy <3

Glaire Talann does not get a lot of free time to herself. She’s a busy little buzzbeast with a particularly structured schedule. Wake up, shower, eat on the way to the rink, get on ice. On performance days, she gets a quick lunch and rushes straight into getting ready. If she doesn’t, it’s another afternoon of practice, dinner, and then more practice. Sometimes she has fittings to go to, sometimes she’s serving as entertainment at parties. Most days, she just gets that final meal and goes home, after a little cool-down period where she, to the surprise of no one, does some free skating. At home, she just goes straight to her respiteblock and falls asleep criminally fast. 

Today, however, Amarra insists that after her last meal of the day, she is to go home. No more practice. Sure, maybe it’s valid because Glaire sort of maybe hurt herself during practice, but it’s so lame to stop when she gets hurt. Fucking lame. Glaire has survived through a lot more and it’s to no benefit to anyone if she stops practicing when she’s hurt. But, she listens. She gets it. Amarra’s the pro, as much as it pisses her off.

She finally gets home, the short walk through the forest more or less rejuvenating her. She remembers reading something during a lunch one day-- tree bathing? She forgets what it’s called. Something about the outdoors helping with negative mental stuff. It’s true enough, she supposes maybe people on the internet might know what they’re talking about. 

She shleps her duffle bag into the chair by the door-- that’s more or less where it belongs. It gets dropped there at the end of her day and picked up from there at the start. She’s greeted by the quiet of her hive, flicking on a few lamps as she makes her way through the blocks. She has a whole evening ahead of her. No obligations, no pressures, and no one around. Perhaps she’d just take a bath? It’s relaxing, and classy, and it’d get her off of her feet like Amarra recommended. Fucking Amarra. She’ll complain to Jackol after practice tomorrow. Oh shit. Speaking of Jackol, she should probably give him the heads up that she wouldn’t be at their usual meeting place.

> FF: i. cann°t. meet. y°u. after. practice. t°night..  
FF: bitch. in. charge. is. f°rcing. me. t°. g°. back. h°me..  
FF: i. will. see. y°u. t°m°rr°w,. jack°l-lantern..

And with that, Glaire is free to do as she likes for the evening. She starts up the ablution trap, pouring some sort of essential oil in the water so it fills the block with the smell of citrus as she moves to turn on her antique record player in the other room. Old, classical music starts to fill the hive as she sways back to the bathingblock to the swinging notes of the strings, now that her lovely little scene is starting to take shape. A few candles are lit before she shuts off the lights in the room-- the only brightness coming from the various flickering flames in her entirely too extravagant block. She can’t help it. This is one of her weaknesses-- long baths after difficult weeks. She can allow herself to really drift off, close her eyes, and pretend that the heat is soaking into her skin.

The break from ice is nice, and so is the break from such tight-fitting clothes. 

The next part of this guilty pleasure of hers, is watching herself strip. In the large mirror above the sink, she lets her eyes trace over her body as she first slides out of her tights. They’re practically skin-toned anyway, it’s not a shock when they come off. Next goes the zipper of her costume. It’s jet black today, covered in oil-slick duochrome sequins. It’s one of her favorites of all her little dresses, honestly. She loves the way it looks against her skin, and as she slips it from her arms and over the gentle curve of her hips, she decides it looks better off than on. Off go the underthings, until it’s just her and the white noise of the bath. Her pale grey skin stands out against the rich indigo of her walls. Contrast. Always contrast. It looks the best.

She indulges for a moment, makes a little pose in the mirror as she lets her hair down. It tumbles over her shoulders, and she honest to god wishes she had brought her palmhusk in here. She never expects a reply from Jackol, but a snapshot of this scene just might force his hand. Strong, scarred, controlling hand. 

She finds herself faintly blushing indigo in the mirror and decides that it’s been enough playtime. She’s had her fun in the mirror. Her hair goes up into a high bun as she slides into the bath she’s prepared. The water gets shut off and the gushing of the flow that served as white noise over the music is now gone, and when she sits down in the tub of warmth, there’s the breathiest little exhale. Relaxation soaks in to her bones, her entire being. 

Stiff muscles loosen, she stretches out, and she swears that she could die pleased right about now. Amarra might have been right. She needed the break. UGH. Fuck Amarra. Glaire really needs to vent to Jackol. He’s a particularly good listener. Or, he’s a poor one, and Glaire just loves talking to someone who won’t speak over her. 

Jackol wouldn’t put up with Amarra if he was in her position. Jackol would do away with Amarra, he wouldn’t deal with the bother. Swat her like a fly. Crush her. Crush her with those perfect hands. 

_Those perfect hands,_ the ones she desperately wants to be on her right now. He’s warm. He’s quiet-- wouldn’t disturb the music, wouldn’t make any real noise. In her ideal world, this tub is big enough for two people, and she’s leaning back against him. He’s almost warmer than she keeps her water, so when his hands settle on her hips or wrap around her from behind, she really does feel like she could _melt._ Or. Uh. She would. She really likes the idea of it.

Her and a lowblood, a monster just like her, together in the secrecy of her isolated home. 

He gets her. She knows he does. So he’d just… Run those lovely fingers across her body, perhaps he’d take her breasts in his hands, grumble something from behind her and distract her from her complaints. She likes to think he’d take off his mask if they were in the tub together, only because she keeps the lights off and he’s sitting behind her. She wouldn’t see him, she couldn’t, this doesn’t break her immersion as she starts to move like she wishes he would. 

Her hands brush over her breasts, skin starting to tingle with the coolness of her flush. Her nipples are slowly hardening-- she pinches at them, she imagines he would, maybe as he takes advantage of having a free mouth by not speaking, but by pressing kisses or bites into her neck. She could take it. Wishes he could brush away her hair to make one of those thunderous, rumbling sounds against her skin. She could hear him breathing heavier, bulge starting to squirm against her from behind, as his hands drift lower. The same insistent, strong hand that had killed countless trolls now pressing against the slit of her nook. He wouldn’t ask permission, wouldn’t need to, and slides one of his rough, calloused fingers inside of her. That’s all she could take at first. His own hands are bigger than hers, thicker than hers. She has to use two fingers, pretends it’s just one of his, and ignores how she’s cold. He would be warmer. He would press his warmth inside her. _Melt_ her. He would melt her. She wants to be _melted,_ please, _Jackol, please--_

He starts to rock his finger inside of her, and she can’t help the way she wants to rock her hips. He grunts against her neck, almost bites her. It’s a threat. His free hand steadies her hips, holds her pressed to him. It’s a nonverbal ‘don’t move.’ What she gets us up to him. She isn’t allowed to keep moving like that. 

And he adds another finger. He stretches inside her a little more, coaxes this whimpering groan from her. It’s soft, it’s really soft, and he wants more from her. She thinks he would want more from her. She rocks her hips again, can’t help the way they roll when he quickens his pace a little. She’s not supposed to move, but she can’t help it. 

And then, he stills his hand. She imagines he’d growl, say the one word: “stop.” Maybe it’d be “no”. She’s not sure. It’s just the idea of him using his voice, the growling, grumbling, low way he speaks. It’s erotic. She likes to imagines the vibrations in his chest and from his voice tingling against her back. She wishes she could feel that rumbling against her pleasure nub. If she wasn’t so set in the fantasy of him fingering her from behind, she’d think about him laying her down and eating her nook. Every growl, every grunt, every groan sending shockwaves through her. He’d probably just push his mask up to clear his lips and she’d stain the bottom half of his face and his mask indigo when she builds up so much prematerial. 

But, this isn’t about that. This is about him slowly, deliberately fucking his fingers into her. Or, rather, her fantasy of him calculatedly making her squirm. He’d be slow. Force her to beg for him to curl his fingers into her harder, beg for him to speed up because she needs more. She hasn’t slept with Jackol yet. Doesn’t know what he’d actually be like, so she assumes the same quietness. A part of her thinks about him being more verbose, but it’s just not logical to her that he’d step out of his box just for pailing. 

She curls her fingers up and his name escapes her lips. She imagines a grunt that’s supposed to mean ‘good girl’ as she does as he wants. Her hips don’t rock or arch or anything, she just stays patient. This is not for her pleasure, it’s for his amusement, she thinks. That’s enough to urge her a little closer, makes her head fall back a little more. She imagines he’d reward her for finally, finally getting his message by going a little harder. It’s still slower than she’d like but he’s making it a point to thrust his fingers as deep as he can get into her nook and curling them, stimulating this perfect little area that triggers moan after moan that she can’t and won’t control. He’s pressing into her until indigo would stain his knuckles, if not for the fact that they were in water. Every thrust into her makes her keen, and she finds herself moaning his name in soft little cries. He’d make her ache with just his fingers. Make her ache and tease her by not thrusting into her, just grinding his bulge against her from behind. 

He picks up the pace for both of them. She imagines he’s as wanting as she is. Or at least has the need to get off. She’ll settle for that, even if it isn’t totally about her. She’s lying. That’s what she wants. Needs him to need her, needs him to need to get off to her. On her. With her. 

Her fingers thrust a little more frantically into her nook, and she allows herself to move her hips as she starts to beg for more. She thinks he’d be okay with her movement now, that she’s been enough of a good girl that she deserves it. She’s listened so much, she’s been so good for him, it’s okay. He wants her to spill material on his fingers for him, and she wants more of him grunting and growling into her ear while she does everything in her power to clench around his fingers and get off for him. 

She can feel his bulge writhing against her with increasing intensity— little waves going through his tentacle. He’s still rutting into her like an animal. God, like an animal. Fuck, please. She wants him to take her, she really does, but her fantasy is starting to come to a close— she’s been in the tub so long her record is starting to scratch and repeat. She just can’t help but fall into fantasy, it’s too easy when she actually had time. 

So she picks up her pace— err, he picks up his, and grunts in her ear “you. Come for me. _Now._”

She can’t disobey. The idea of him growling at her with such intensity, him commanding her, an esteemed highblood, to be filthy for him, to climax for him, sends her teetering over. She gushes indigo genetics into the water around her, riding her fingers and grinding her hips until she’s ridden out every aftershock and every gasping moan of “Jackol”. 

It’s his name, skipping and repeating, just like the record she had run in the background. It would be annoying if she wasn’t sounding just like it. Then she’d be calling herself annoying, and there’s nothing annoying about the way she’s moaning “Jackol, oh fuck, J-Jackol, _Jackol, **Jackol**_.”

She’s ruined the water. She’ll need a shower now, she realizes, and the record is still skipping in the background. 

With a quick rinse off, she tries not to think too hard about the scene she’s played out for herself. Her legs are wobbly— not from her injury during practice. No, she’s weak-kneed thanks to her flushcrush. 

When she dries off and returns to the living room in a particularly nice robe, she sees her palmhusk. Perhaps she should message him.

> FF: i. was. just. thinking. °f. y°u..  
FF: s°. sad. i. didn’t. get. t°. see. y°u. t°day..  
FF: still,. y°u. managed. t°. make. my. evening.. y°u. d°n’t. understand. h°w. helpful. y°u. are!.

She gives herself a laugh. He’d have no idea. One day, one day, maybe he would. And she’d be forced to admit all the different times he ‘helped’ her out. 


End file.
